


The Morning After

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo), ozhawk



Category: Spy (2015)
Genre: F/M, Morning After, Movie Spoilers, Post-Movie(s), What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozhawk/pseuds/ozhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night, there is champagne and beef jerky. The morning after...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozhawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozhawk/gifts).



> This came about as the result of spitballing ideas with ozhawk about a possible co-write.
> 
> This one's for you, Cath.

It's the sunlight that does it.

Streams of golden light are flowing through the curtains into the lavishly appointed hotel room, and the first thing Susan does is try to burrow under the covers to block it out. She doesn't want to wake up - not to face a hangover and _definitely_ not if it means leaving the delicious dream she's been having. She knows it's probably just a side effect of champagne and loneliness, like adding beef jerky created some strange alchemy of the imagination that fuels incredibly detailed erotic fantasies- but she likes it, she loves it, she wants some more of it and revisiting the sultry particulars sounds vastly superior to waking up to her head in a vice.

But ever since she was little, once she's up she's up, so with a sigh she relinquishes her hold on the dream world and starts drifting back to consciousness.

Every morning it's the same: wiggle the toes, flex the calves, arch the back, deep breath in and _streeeettttttch!_ A soak in a hot tub and a few Advil chasers had done wonders on her aching muscles, but there's a different sort of throb at work when she starts to think about it.

At least she tries to think, eyes resolutely closed while her mental hard drive boots up. The dream had been memorable but hazy, like watching a movie through a mesh screen. Large powerful hands roaming over her body, a firm mouth alternating teeth with tender kisses, brown eyes piercing her soul as a sculpted body pins her down, a gruff accent whispering filthy sweet things in her ear, a **huge** \- wait a minute. _Brown_ eyes? Gruff accent? She'd been dreaming about _Ford?!_

It seems inconceivable... until it takes a backseat to a late-breaking realization.

She's not sore the way she's supposed to be (or is it that she's sore in a way she's not supposed to be?) She flexes experimentally, feeling the start of bruises on her hips and thighs that don't coincide with the involuntary action sequence she's participated in for the last 48 hours. Her throat is raw like she's been screaming all night. If the feel of 800-thread count against her back is anything to go by, she's not wearing a stitch of clothing...

 _Good gravy- how involved **was** this dream?_ Twitching again, she recognizes that singular sensitivity she only gets after-

"Mnn-mmm..."

Aaaaand a voice that is not hers just grunted in their sleep. Praying to any deity she can name that the outcome is anything other than what she knows it must be, she opens her eyes, slooooowly turns her head... and finds herself gazing upon the slumbering form of Rick. Effing. Ford.

There's a loud noise like the universe is warping, but it turns out to be her yelling disbelief. It has the bonus of waking him (although should she have tried to slip out before that happened?) and he rouses like a sleepy tiger.

"Oh stop screaming- you loved it."

She settles down - more from shock than actual adherence to his command - and he slings an arm over and snuggles against her shoulder. For the better part of five minutes Susan stares at the intricacies of the patterned ceiling, only blinking when her eyes start to burn, trying to ignore the surly Brit currently drooling into her hair.

She's no less tense when he wakes again, clearing his throat and blinking at the offensive sunshine before offering her a look. "Round 2?"

If her hazy recollection of the night before (and several hours of the early morning) is accurate, his count is off by at least three. Still... "Okay," she tentatively agrees, sliding the duvet up over them. "Just don't do that thing with your thumb again."

As they slip into the darkness once more, she thinks she can feel a smile when he captures her mouth for a kiss.


	2. Round Two (or is it Five?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And ozhawk joins in with some smut - naturally, if you know my writing from my usual fandom!
> 
> (thanks, Lex, for prodding me into this. Having heaps of fun with it. Back to you!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: Fic rating has changed to M.**

“You’re protestin’ too much,” Ford mutters, nibbling down her neck. “You loved ‘that thing with my thumb’ you disgraceful woman.”

Susan can’t quite bring herself to lie. “Not every time, then,” she compromises.

“If you say so. You have fuckin’ gorgeous tits.” He proceeds to kiss them all over, very thoroughly, paying particular attention to the bite marks and bruises he’d already left there.

“You called me a lunch lady,” she gasps, squirming as he apparently decides she needed another bruise on her left boob and sets about sucking one in.

“You’re gonna hold everything rude I ever said against me, aren’t you?” Ford mumbles before licking her nipple.

Susan allows a grin. “I can feel my memory failing me already. But I’m sure you’ll say something obnoxious again soon enough.”

“Cheeky wench.” One big hand is braced at her hip and he delivers a sound smack to her ass, eliciting a squeal and a halfhearted escape since his teeth are clamped quite firmly on her nipple and she's already sore enough, thanks very much.

“Gentle!” she chides, softly whapping his arm.

Ford releases her and lifts his head. Dark eyes search her face for a moment and then he's moving up, leaning on one arm to kissing her slowly, leisurely.

Susan has never been kissed like that in her _life_. It's _tender_ \- something completely unexpected from the hard-as-nails, scarred, cynical agent. She blinks up at him astonished when he lifts his head again, and he blinks back before unleashing a wicked grin.

“Madonna taught me to kiss like that when I rescued her from Saddam Hussein’s henchmen who’d kidnapped her because he wanted her to perform _Like A Virgin_ at his birthday party.”

“I have never in my life met anyone who spouts as much bullshit as you, Rick Ford.”

“Where’s my phone? I’ll call Madge and you can ask her.” He rolls over and scrabbles at the bedside table. “Oh wait, I remember. We left it in the other room after I took those fuckin’ gorgeous photos of you.”

“What?!” Susan shrieks in a pitch to have every dog on the beach howling. The night is a hazy blur but she has absolutely no memory of photos. And on his _phone_ no less? Oh God. She knows exactly how easy it is to hack one of those things. Indeed, Nancy's probably already looking at them…

Ford sniggers into her hair. “Relax, luv. Ain’t no photos. We could call Madge later, though. I really hafta tell her about Fitty and Nancy. She’s been tryin’ to set him up with someone for ages.”

Susan is still trying to wrap her head around Ford actually knowing Madonna; the thought of telling the Material Girl about Fifty Cent and Nancy getting it on makes her mind boggle.

“You’re distractin’ me again, woman,” Ford raises up on one elbow and gazes down at her. Susan’s eyes are inevitably drawn to the bulging muscle of his upper arm.

“Speak for yourself, Ford,” she mutters, still staring at that _arm_. Looking at an arm like that, she might even believe some of that crap he spouted about having forty-three black belts across nine different martial arts disciplines.

“Y’know what, I’m gonna let my mouth do the talking.”

“Your mouth always does the - _oh_.” He dives further down under the covers, swirling his tongue around her nipple in passing before continuing lower, chuckling against her skin as she breathes, “Oh - good gravy!”

“Much better than gravy,” returns the muffled argument before he licks again at the juncture of her thighs.

He probably - definitely - has some utterly insane story about where he’d learned to do _that_ with his tongue. Not that Susan cares right now. She relaxes into the touch, closing her eye; a moment later she's glad of it. They’d probably have rolled so far back in her head they'd stick once two of Ford’s thick fingers joins the party, thrusting slowly and then crooking to find the sensitive little bundle of nerves he's looking for. She's vaguely aware of her hand making a run for the nightstand where her brain had noted an open box of condoms. The box winds up on the floor but she manages to retain a single foil packet, bringing it down and dropping it unceremoniously on top of Ford’s bald head.

“That a hint, luv?” his raspy voice full of laughter.

“Shut up and fuck me, Ford!” He really is rubbing off on her. Or at least should be.

“Well, I _was_ busy doing that with me tongue, but if you’d rather have my gargantuan cock…”

Laughing, she grabs his head in her hands and suctioned her mouth to his. Really, it's the best way to shut him up, and he does have quite the exceptional kissing technique. When she lets go, he’s clearly stopped thinking of clever retorts as he rips the condom packet open with fingers that Susan is gratified to see tremble slightly.

She has the strangest feeling that hungover, slightly headachey morning-after sex is going to be even better than Bollinger-shots sex. At the very least, she'll remember it better anyway, because last night was beginning to seem hazier and blurrier then ever. Of course that could just be the endorphins slowly flooding her brain… oh God.

“Oh God.” Oh. That one was out loud.

That really is _quite_ an impressive cock. And unlike just about every other weapon she’d seen him incompetently handle, Ford seems to know just what to do with it.

“You don’t have to call me God, luv. Rick’ll do. Or Ford…”

_He needs shutting up again._

“Save your breath, or at the very least do something useful with it, Ford!” She digs her heels into his ass.

He wisely saves his breath. Bracing his hands on either side of her, his hips begin to snap back and forth, driving into her _hard_ , sweat beading on his brow with the effort. Susan shrieks, flailing a moment for something to brace herself against, and ends up putting her hands behind her head, clinging onto the headboard. Her boobs bounce and jiggle in time with his thrusts and Ford licks his lips with an appreciative leer.

“You’re even fucking sexier in daylight,” he growls.

The genuine sentiment in his words, from this man who must have seen a thousand beautiful women and been seduced by a fair few of them, along with the extra little twist he suddenly adds to his hips, catching just perfectly inside her sends her tipping over the edge with a yowl, bucking under him.

“Fuck yes!” Ford’s ecstatic cry is a distant rumble in her ears as the world blurs out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing style is a bit different, but hopefully it's not too noticeable and I got the characters' voices right! And I love comments just as much as my co-author, so please, let us know if this is as good for you as it is for Coop...
> 
> Lady_Cleo's note: I edited. Hope you don't mind.


	3. You can ring my bell

This time it’s the rain that does it. Well, the faint wet rumble against the windows _and_ the growling chorus of their stomachs demanding sustenance that doesn’t come from a bag or bottle. Susan wakes with a smile, remembering reality instead of a dream. Her stretch slips her out of Ford’s hold and she continues the trend until her toes hit the carpet. She pulls on a robe that happens to fit before padding over to hunt for a room service menu.

A faint bleeping noise draws her attention to her phone, barely clinging to life at 8% and showing a TON of texts and missed calls. _Must’ve put it on vibrate sometime last night_ , she concludes as she starts up the voicemail and tries to find her charger. Elaine calling about her briefing report, Ford wondering if she knew that was a fucking lake, Nancy wondering where she’d got off to, Elaine calling about her next assignment, Fine calling to see if she wanted to meet for brunch, Nancy asking how best to call off 50 Cent’s security detail, Elaine wanting to know where the hell she was, her mother reminding her to give up on her dreams, Fine asking if a late lunch worked better instead, Nancy whispering something about mounting 50 Cent that Susan skips as soon as braying laughter and sliding noises ensue, the concierge asking why the phone in the room wasn’t ringing through, Elaine threatening to plant a tracking node in her ass if she didn’t check in soon…

The texts aren’t much better. Fine hoping she has a good night, Nancy asking how to say condom in Hungarian, Fine giving her sad puppy face, Nancy telling her not to bother because 50’s entourage buys them in bulk, and an increasingly violent series of angry texts from Elaine – all punctuated with a few drunk selfies of her and Ford at various points in the ‘contest’ and a string of Italian come-ons from Aldo who apparently memorized her number when they were captured.

Susan presses the cool touchscreen against her head with a sigh and it gives off a mournful, almost sympathetic chirp. Pulling back to look at it, she remembers. “Oh, right – low battery. I was just about to worry about sentient technology.” Her charger and the power cord for the house phone are looped around the base of the delicate coffee table, and Susan wonders about that strangeness until the handcuffs dangling off the carved arm of the wingchair catch her eye.

“Oh, _God…_ ” she moans, mortar shell memories bursting against the backdrop of her tired brain.

“Quit callin’ me that, Cooper” Ford demands in a sleepy grumble, and the nagging concerns over the night before (and most of the current day) begin to fade.

Besides, she can barely hear herself think over her stomach. The room service menu is finally unearthed from a pile of beef jerky packaging and paper airplanes and Susan manages to overrule Ford’s idea to “just order the lot and we’ll sort it out later” in favor of a few dishes they can share, along with water, a few pots of coffee and some aspirin. Spicy Eggs Benedict soon arrives with _bundaskenyér_ , salad, a roast beef sandwich and chicken _paprikash_ , and the pair settles in on the damp covered balcony to eat.

“Oi! What’s this one again?” Ford asks around a mouthful of sugared bread, giving Susan a look of heated suggestion. “It’s almost as sweet as you.”

She tamps down the urge to roll her eyes. “ _Bundaskenyér_. Sort of a Hungarian French toast.”

One of those lethal eyebrows sketches a question mark. “That’s a contradiction in terms, innit?”

“Yeah well, so are you, but that doesn’t make you any less delicious.” He doesn’t respond right away, and Susan looks up from her plate to find him staring at her, a smug grin at odds with the veiled emotion in his eyes. “What?”

“Nothin’. I was just thinking of ways we could work all this off.”

“Work it off?! We’re still making up depleted calories from last night! And this morning… And the 26 minutes we had til the food arrived.” Ford’s hand is making a stealthy incursion under her robe to the bare skin of her thigh, and Susan’s breath hitches with every millimeter it rises. It’s rounding the curve towards the apex of her thighs when she claps her hand over his, separated by a barrier of waffle-stamp linen. “And besides, I’m gonna be too full for that much… _movement_ just yet. How about a rain check?”

“Seriously?” He gestures at the sheets of precipitation just past the balcony’s edge. “You went there?”

“I went there. And later,” she breathes, leaning in, “You can go _there._ ”

Sustenance completed, they spend a few hours playing card games as Ford had strenuously objected to the offerings on cable. _(“I watch plenty of crap telly – I’m British, for fuck’s sake – but there’s that and then there’s The Real Honey Boo-Boo Kardashians of Wall Street and I draw the fucking_ LINE _at that shit!”)_ He’s unethical at poker (continuously trying to turn it into the strip variety), rolls his eyes at go fish (yet continuously tries to turn _that_ into the strip variety as well) and teaches her snap – only to blatantly cheat when she develops the wildest streak of beginners luck ever. She spends a quarter hour teaching him to throw cards in a bowl, which he manages with a near deadly accuracy and speed.

Finally, he wheels on her and plays Spontaneous 52 Pick-up as the deck goes flying. “Enough. Bloody. Games. You wanna play – I say we kick off round 3… if you’ll be so fucking kind as to ring the bell.”

Susan giggles, partially from the thought about revisiting the handcuffs on the chair later, partially from the adorably huffy look on his face – like a kid who’s been denied his dessert til later – and partially from the 70s disco hit that starts blaring in her head. “Ding!” she chimes and they race back to the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, guys. my phone decided it wanted to take a swimming lesson so I've been without internet lately.  
> I'm really touched by the response we've had to this fic. thank you.  
> also, depending on where ozhawk decides to take things in the next chapter, I might be trying my hand at this "adult" stuff y'all seem to like so much...

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah there's been speculating and theorizing (and maybe even a little fantasizing) about the 'morning after' scene... but no one's gone the whole hog and FICCED it yet.  
> It had to be remedied so I did. Hope you're happy.
> 
> P.S. a recent study shows that comments add years to the life of an author (esp. in the case of fic writers, who go through so much angst it shortens their lifespan anyway.)  
> A-HEM. Do with that information what you will. *wink wink nudge nudge*


End file.
